Sally Wen Mao

Haibun for Wintering

There are few spaces she feels safe: an untrimmed meadow, where she can fall from a branch and land on her feet. A bedroom’s shadow, warm with the window open. A train nods off in the direction of elsewhere. She thinks of hotels she’s inhabited: the tin-roof house in Minca. Mosquito net spilled over her face, morning aria of roosters and cicadas. The purple room in Paris. Eggplant wallpaper. Flies fluttering at her toes. It was autumn; the Pope was visiting. His face followed her through the city. Skylights and satellites stuttered. Most of the cities she’s walked dry up into empty wells. How to reconcile: an outstretched arm recoiling back. The indecisive longing of all seasons. There are gestures too impossible to crave. Horizons made of brick. Too many ways to cook an egg. She wants to steam it, but she’s missing the scallions. She wants to stir it, but she’s missing the ladle.